


Sherlock Holmes Is Dangling Precipitously Off This Chair

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Challenge Response, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Fix-It, Infidelity, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Stag Night, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1942077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On John's stag night, no client appears, but loosened inhibitions do, making for a much more satisfying evening.</p>
<p>Written for Let’s Write Sherlock Challenge 14:  One thousand stag nights</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes Is Dangling Precipitously Off This Chair

Sherlock had never been this drunk in his life. Tipsy, yes, once or twice. High, yes, extendedly. This was quite different. If alcohol was a depressant, he attempted to reason, why was it that the smallest things seemed so funny? The mere sight of John’s feet muffled in those ridiculously saggy brown socks was enough to make him snort into his glass of Scotch.

And now, John stretching out, propping those socks up against Sherlock’s chair next to his leg, made Sherlock laugh again.

“What?” John asked.

“Your socks,” Sherlock said, thinking of the word ‘atrocious’ but finding it too difficult to form with his strangely uncoordinated mouth, choosing an easier word instead, “are awful.”

John looked wounded. “They’re fine. They’re just socks.” He took a drink, then muttered, “Not like I have a bloody sock index...”

It was easier to think about John’s socks than what was really niggling at the edges of Sherlock’s consciousness -- the burning sensation on his knee where John had touched him, briefly gripped him, during the Rizla game, nearly tumbling forward, accidentally grabbing... or maybe not so accidentally….

_I don’t mind._ What did that mean?

Sherlock couldn’t think clearly, could barely hold on to a thought before it swayed away, but he could still feel the impressions of John’s fingertips on his knee… and part of his thigh, really… sending a dull shock up his spine.

He now watched John smile at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back, and John smiled wider, and Sherlock followed suit, he didn’t even know what for -- but wait, yes, he did. It was John, just sitting there, his head drifting sideways against the back of the chair, his drink balanced loosely on his chest, and they were grinning at each other like idiots.

Sherlock slid lower in his chair as well, his legs stretching out and falling open slightly, just enough for his right thigh to make contact against John’s foot still propped up on the chair, that awful sock not so bothersome now.

They looked at each other through a haze colored by the burgundys and golds and greens in the room, smiles settling, eyes stilling, seconds ticking by.

_Oh, my God,_ Sherlock realized, _John is getting married._

He knew that, of course, but this time it hit him particularly hard in the chest, and it hurt, and why couldn’t he breathe? This wasn’t right, not right at all. Mere seconds ago he was feeling happy, and now he wasn’t. (Because you’re too late! It’s too late!) But no, there was something unfinished… John had just touched him. _I don’t mind. Anytime._

“You okay?” John asked, seeing him go a bit pale.

“Fine. Fine.” Sherlock waved a hand. Was it too late? The wedding was a few weeks away yet. It would be wrong to say anything now. Even he knew that. But wouldn’t it be wronger… more wrong… whatever, to not do something? Why the hell had he slogged around the world for two years just to lose everything now?

Sherlock took another drink, pressed the glass to his forehead, the Rizla paper having fallen off earlier, now hanging haphazardly on the arm of his chair. Sherlock glanced at it. _Sherlock Holmes,_ the yellow paper read. _Sherlock Holmes is dangling precipitously off this chair, about to flutter to the floor…_

John wiggled his foot a bit, gaining a better hold against the chair, snuggling deeper against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock raised his eyes from the yellow paper and fell into John’s contented gaze again.

_John, you’re in your chair again. John, touch my knee again. Touch me. Just do something now. Just… oh, fuck it._

Sherlock found himself lurching forward, barely balanced, somehow landing on his heels before folding forward onto his knees in front of John, making a desperate grab at his jumper, bunching the wool in his fist, dragging John down to him, finding his mouth, tasting the whiskey, the room tilting.

“Sherlock,” John finally gasped after two long, perfectly imperfect kisses, surprised but not drawing away. Sherlock, still on his knees, pushed up and into him, pressing John against the back of the chair, wanting to crawl into the seat with him and somehow slip under his clothes and feel his warm skin against him.

John pulled back. “We’re drunk…” he started, his hand flat against Sherlock’s shoulder, holding him back. But within moments his fingers closed slowly, now holding on, not resisting. “It’s late...” John said weakly.

“It’s not. It’s not that late,” Sherlock answered with a small shake of his head. He tried to smooth the wrinkles he had created in John’s jumper, not wanting to break their contact, watched his own hand move up and down John’s chest. “It’s not too late,” he whispered again, unable to look at John.

Sherlock could feel John’s fingers digging into his shoulder and was prepared to be thrown off and dumped onto the floor, was not prepared for the swift and almost painful kiss that followed, delivered with such force and pent up feeling that his hands went around John’s neck partly to hold on, partly to smash himself even harder against the storm wall that had just broken loose.

The chair was barely able to contain the knees and elbows and awkwardly bent backs and necks and Sherlock felt John pushing him upwards, standing up, saying words he hadn’t expected to hear: "The bed."

They weaved to Sherlock’s room, cool and dim, the bed soft as Sherlock pried off his shoes and there went his suit jacket, and how the hell could it be this hard to peel a jumper off someone?

And how strange and wonderful it was to pull out shirt tails and undo each other’s buttons a few at a time and stretch out alongside one another, plenty of room for arms and legs. And why had he never known stroking the back of John’s head, his hair recently cut, felt like the warm, soothing back of a puppy?

And oh, the scar on John’s shoulder, touching it with two fingers, then, curious, with his lips, and his skin was as warm as he’d imagined, and John’s hand running down to the small of his back, fingers brushing past his waistband, were warm and welcome. John nuzzling his neck as he undid the fly on Sherlock’s trousers, his hands tugging down on the fabric as Sherlock hastily worked on releasing John’s belt, unzipping, pulling, freeing until they were fully unclothed, exposed.

From there it was a blur of hands and palms and mouths, knees bumping, urgent groping, ceiling sloping, sheets bunching, gripping hips, John’s lips sliding down, down, his back curving. Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing he could bottle these moments, not caring about tomorrow... not thinking… not… thinking… that feels… oh, this is… ah, Christ… _John_ … bliss...

The bed was still moving, rocking, but it really wasn’t, and Sherlock wrapped himself around John, something solid, and Sherlock could feel himself slipping into sleep despite himself, but not before he heard John murmur, his lips against his temple, “Tomorrow... I’ll talk to Mary.”


End file.
